Sounds of Silence

Sarah is breathing. If a metronome were made of cotton, it would be her sleeping beat. The balcony is behind me and the long blue curtains, and below that, cars on the cobblestones, and closed-down shops, and the last dog-walkers of the night. Sarah just whispered something, sounded like "delinquent" or "did he quit". The pipes are dripping water somewhere. Everything is louder in the dark. I want to know about being alone. About relationships. About columns, and their arches, and their strength and their balance. I want to know whether my breath matches my sister's in the night, how the room sounds when no one is listening. Today I heard "The Sounds of Silence" played by an Ecuadorian street musician, in Rome. I recognized the tune as it came up the hill to where we stood over the Forum, looking out over that field of ruins. Carlos sang along in Spanish. I want to know who stole bricks from the Colosseum and where they are now. There are holes in all of the ruins, where bricks used to be, empty little altars, homes for pigeons, cloaks from the rain.